


Front Window

by widgenstain



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dark!Charles, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Half-Sibling Incest, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Loneliness, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder, Present Tense, Prostitution, Stalking, Sugar Daddy, Time Skips, Violence, Voyeurism, What is AE and BE spelling?, oh so much incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-01-20 21:16:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1526063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/widgenstain/pseuds/widgenstain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is a lonely electronics salesman with a secret past, who develops an unhealthy obsession with the blue-eyed stranger form across the street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [treasuredleisure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treasuredleisure/gifts).



> For treasuredleisure whose [ prompt](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/9701.html?thread=21284069#t21284069) I disfigured beyond recognition. 
> 
> A HUGE Thank You to [ chadekelevra](http://chadekelevra.tumblr.com/) who betaed the mess that was this fic. 
> 
> And a little warning at the beginning: this is a lot darker than what I usually write, so please, heed the tags!

Erik’s shift ends at 7pm. It takes him about thirty minutes to get from the Best Buy to the street he lives in, another fifteen to get a salad or something similar for dinner from the grocery store, and then he’s home in a small, sparsely furnished flat with almost no personal touches.

 

The building he lives in is desolate and run-down as is the whole area. It was bad enough when Erik came here five years ago, and it has only become worse. With the wage of an assistant manager of an electronics store he could easily afford a place in a nicer area; not to mention the overseas funds he accumulated in his previous career, and the hefty severance package it included. But he came to this country to keep a low profile and he has no intention of leaving. This flat serves him just right.  
He keeps telling himself that it’s as good as anything else. 

 

After he eats his healthy, bland dinner, he’s got a lot of time that has to be filled. It’s been a while since he has brought home some of the equipment from the store to fix and improve - broken cameras, phones with defunct batteries etc. He doesn’t remember when he stopped but nowadays he mostly just watches TV; although lately even that has become tedious and somewhat exhausting. It’s not as if he doesn’t have some favourite shows, he just can’t pay attention to them long enough anymore. He always ends up flipping through the channels, everything blurring together, and there’s no satisfaction in it.

 

He switches the fantasy saga off and cleans his spotless Berretta for what has to be the third time this week. Why, he doesn’t know. He will never use it again. As he sits at the window of his joint living room/kitchen/bedroom, his attention is caught by an extra light in the two storey building across the street. The bottom floor is a boarded up and long closed sanitary installations store, and the floor above consists of six decrepit flats. Even though he has a limited view into them, he’s always aware of what’s happening in the three flats facing his window. A Vietnamese family of five lives on the right, with all the trouble so many people crammed into such little space entail. On the left there’s a single divorcee with an alcohol problem. 

 

The one in the middle, the only one Erik can look into unobstructed, has been empty for almost six months. The old man, with his two ridiculously spoiled cats and his horrible collection of ornamental plates, has died. His daughter took the cats, the plates and the HD TV, but left the rest of the old-fashioned furniture. Erik had doubted someone would ever move in there. 

 

However, as Erik curiously watches on, someone is moving around in the flat, shoving one of the old sofas right under the window. It’s a youngish man, maybe in his early thirties, with brown hair and pale skin, wearing a white undershirt and loose jeans. He’s pretty, as far as Erik can tell. The man makes his bed on the sofa, which Erik thinks is strange since there is a perfectly usable bed only a few feet away. He goes to what Erik assumes is a little bathroom in the back and returns about five minutes later wearing only his boxers. He’s slight for American standards but Erik prefers subtle muscle definition anyway. Yeah, positively pretty.

 

The man turns off the lamp and goes to sleep. It’s something Erik can hardly do nowadays, at least not for longer than 4 hours a night, but he finds that thinking about the stranger is a pleasant distraction. 

 

The plate on the doorbell still says “Francis [UNREADABLE]” a week after the man has moved in, so Erik starts to refer to him as Francis in his mind, even though it’s the name of the old cat-man whom this Francis doesn’t resemble at all. The man isn’t home often; he comes and goes irregularly. Does he work somewhere, or is he unemployed? He drives an old Toyota but the laptop and tablet he uses are top-of-the-line. His clothes look simple but they’re branded and his haircut looks expensive. The man doesn’t fit into this part of the city, not really, but he doesn’t seem to care. 

 

Then again Erik isn’t sure if he has moved in at all. From what he can see there are no changes to the unfashionable furnishings, no personal belongings, not even clothes. He doesn’t know where Francis keeps the things he changes into every morning but it’s definitely nowhere in that room. Maybe it’s a place for work? He does sit on the tattered sofa and read articles a lot when he’s in. He brought a stack of files he’s spread out on the still unslept in bed. Usually he drinks tea while going over them, but a beer has slipped in occasionally too. Despite the chilly temperatures outside, Francis is in his underwear often. It’s a lovely bonus for Erik, those creamy thighs and that perky ass in those boxers. They are what he likes best about his new, a tad disrespectful hobby. 

 

No, that’s not true, he corrects himself. It’s the eyes; It’s the eyes that he likes best. He couldn’t really tell their colour before; in contrast to the red-red mouth that’s basically gleaming at him. Francis thankfully (!) never looks up into Erik’s flat (he probably can’t, given the angle and the reflected light) but his eyes appeared to be the most stunning bright blue. Erik confirmed their brilliant colour a week after the man had settled in. He was waiting in line behind him at the grocery store; the smell of an expensive aftershave in his nostrils. When Francis dropped the pack of razor blades he was carrying, Erik was quick to pick them up. The man gave him a polite smile and thanked him in a beautiful, rich voice. 

 

That was it. That was their conversation. Any normal person would have said more than “You’re welcome”. Maybe they would have shared a joke and arranged a date. Erik settles for watching Francis eat his instant noodles at night instead.

 

He’s aware of how weird what he’s doing is, but what good would it bring him if he went after Francis and actually got to know him? He can’t afford relationships, not as he would like them to be. His colleagues know him as cold and reserved, which doesn’t stop them from trying to invite him to their office birthday cake breaks for some strange reason. Nor does it stop the occasional new secretary throwing herself at him. He takes all of it in his stride but never deepens any contact, in or outside of work. 

 

Except Logan. 

Logan is like him, they share a past, an upbringing. The only difference is Logan tries to be a part of this world, plays the charade. He has lived with Jean for three years now and lied to her every single day. Erik couldn’t do that, not to the man he loves. This is much better, safer. It doesn’t keep him from wanting to learn more about Francis.

 

Everything.

 

What’s his real name for a start? Erik discovered the DMV records are just as easily accessible as they were 6 years ago. It turns out the Toyota is registered to a pretty university professor named Moira Kinross. Is she a friend? Girlfriend? Wife? No one ever visits Francis at the flat. He has a posh accent that he plays down - why? What’s in the files he keeps on the bed? Who is he talking to on the phone, gesticulating furiously? Francis seems so composed in the streets. He even gives the veteran at the corner a warm smile when he drops some change in the guy’s hat. So what kind of phone call could anger him like this?

 

One night, after what Erik notices is an especially loud yet still indecipherable conversation, Francis has more than one beer. Five to be precise. He turns on some music and starts dancing to it. The movements are a little out of control but fluid, his hips rolling in a different, more sensual beat than his arms, which appear to be punching an invisible opponent. All in all it’s more awkwardly adorable than sexy.

 

Erik still palms himself. He can’t remember when he jerked off the last time. Porn had become boring at one point; it took ages ‘til he got off and it left him more sore than sated. And it has been more than 6 months since he’s had enough energy to pick up some random guy at a club.  
He doesn’t get fully hard this time either but it’s good to see that there are things that can stir his interest without the imperative of ‘You have to, what is wrong with you’. 

 

After two and a half weeks he finds himself buying the same greasy take-away as Francis. It’s not what he would usually eat and he doubles his work-out sessions in the morning because of it. Erik likes to think they share something in that meal, like they’re having dinner together, having something in common aside from the love of Spartan interior design and impeccable order.

 

Francis is incredibly clean; apart from the files which also seem to have some kind of system, everything stays in its place. He still sleeps on the sofa and hasn’t brought in any frippery. In fact it’s even more sparse than Erik’s own flat, empty and a little dead. But it doesn’t matter when the only thing Erik cares about is there; alive, breathing shaking his hips in his boxers, and working through mountains of documents. 

 

On the next Tuesday, after being held up at work in a staff meeting, Erik comes home late. He still goes through his evening routine, bus, buy a dinner from the store, up the stairs, but he almost runs now, impatient to get in his flat, his body brimming with something that would have been giddy excitement in anyone else. When he reaches his often frequented seat on the bed by the window he gasps in shock: for the first time Erik has seen, there’s another person in the flat with Francis. Of course it had to be a young, blond woman, who according to her DMV file clearly wasn’t Moira. 

 

Erik can see that Francis and the woman are in some sort of argument and that they are trying to keep it quiet, but it seems the woman isn’t managing to succeed. She snaps at Francis and shakes her head, a mask of desperately angry disbelief on her face. It cracks after a few short words form Francis and she bursts into tears, sinking down onto the sofa. Francis follows her after a moment of hesitation and pulls her into his arms, hugging her tightly. She resists, weakly trying to push him off, but eventually she succumbs, sobbing wetly in his embrace.

 

After a few minutes Francis strokes the wet hair from her face and kisses the top of her head. She’s tired and doesn’t refuse him as he coaxes her head up to kiss her cheeks and then her lips. It’s not until he tries to deepen the kiss that she starts to squirm, struggling in his hold. She turns her head away, breaking the kiss, and forcefully shoves him off. He lets her go, a dazed and shocked expression on his face. Even from this distance Erik can make out Francis’ frantic apology. She stares at him, the look of hurt so clear on her face, then quickly collects her things and rushes out of the apartment.

 

Francis is left sitting alone on his sofa, head between his arms. Erik can’t tell if he’s crying or not but continues watching as Francis gets up and leaves the flat too. For a second Erik thinks of running after him. He wants to understand what had just happened. What did they fight over? Why did he kiss that woman? Are or were they lovers? Erik never had much interest in the other sex, but even he has to admit that she is beautiful. Surprised by his sudden surge of jealousy and annoyed by his own childishness, he chews down his dinner alone.

 

After two hours of lying awake, Erik notices as the light in Francis’ flat turns on again. With curiosity, Erik sits up for a better view. Francis is back and there’s a red-headed man - no, a boy - with him. He can’t be older than 19 or 20, and is as twink as they come. The boy stumbles, drunk or high and he’s laughing as Francis pushes him up against the wall to nuzzle at his throat. So he likes men too… Their hips grind into each other, faces smashed together in kisses that are more a probing than anything else. The boy tries to drag Francis to the bed but Francis predictably deflects him towards the sofa. There’s more kissing, open-mouthed and obscene. They shift and the boy moves out of Erik’s line of sight but Francis’ head rolls back onto the armrest. From the look on his face, the boy must be somewhere between his legs.

 

Erik can feel his cock stirring at the pleasured smile that appears on Francis’ face. He wants to kiss those red, parted lips. It would be softer, longer and more intimate than any of the displays he’s seen tonight. The boy comes back into Erik’s view as he sits up onto Francis’ lap. There is some fumbling as he takes his shirt off exposing his torso. He’s skinny where Erik is lean; lanky where Erik is defined muscle and precision. But the boy is about the same height as him and it’s enough for Erik to imagine himself in his place. Now Erik is the one who’s sucking on the fingers of one of Francis’ hands while the fingers of the other hand are quickly being slicked up and roughly pushed inside him.

 

Erik is hard like he hadn’t been in a long time. He fumblingly retrieves some of the hand lotion on his nightstand and starts stroking himself slowly. Two fingers toy at his hole with a teasing pressure. He slips them in as the boy sinks down on Francis’ cock. He times his strokes to the rhythm in which the boy rides Francis and even stifles his moans in sync. Everything he can do to make it appear it was him gripping that luscious hair to pull Francis’ head back, take control of him and trap him in the clench of his body; feel the stiff cock push inside of him, hitting him where it’s supposed to hit on every slide down and giving him the relief he’s been longing for.

 

His hand flies over his cock and the burn of the two fingers is long replaced by pure lust. The boy’s face scrunches up - the strain in his thighs, Erik feels it too - and Francis flips him over the armrest to take him from behind. Erik’s view is clear now. Francis’ naked, glistening body, his focused face, the gorgeous flushed cock as he pulls out far and thrusts back in, harsh and quick.

 

This is it. Harder. Erik unconsciously rocks his hips with the thrusts. This pounding is for him. His elbows chafe on the sheets. Francis’ fingernails dig into his skin. And he’s the one who throws his head back and cries out on the sofa. Heat erupts and shoots through him as he comes in his own hand. He heaves, the waves of the orgasm slowly subsiding, when he reopens his eyes just in time to see Francis pull out and get rid of the condom. Francis begins stroking himself in earnest; a strong hand moving up and down the thick cock, and a lower-lip sucked deep red and a concentrated face that looks almost pained are what Francis shows in his silent-cry release over the boy’s back. Erik would come a second time if he could. 

 

Afterwards Francis slumps forward on top of the other man, boy, teenager, whatever. It’s Erik who feels the weight of the slim body covering him wholly and completely. Warm and nice and secure. Just pretend for a little while longer that this is real too.

 

When he’s finally about to get up and clean himself, the couple in the room across the street sit up as well. The boy kisses Francis and they talk about something. Then the boy gets dressed, slipping back into his frayed jeans without bothering about pants or clean-up. Francis scrambles for his own trousers and pulls out a money-clip. When he waves three green bills, the boy seems reluctant and hesitates at first, face full of doubt, but then takes them, rolls them into little tubes and puts them in his pocket. He leans forward, kisses Francis again, more intimately this time and leaves.

 

As the boy exits the building, Erik notices that he turns around in the street, gazing up to Francis’ window with the same undetermined look on his face.  
Francis brushes his teeth, turns off the light and goes to sleep on the sofa. The boy is long gone and Francis hidden in the darkness when Erik presses his lips to his hand in a shy and grateful kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

When Erik sleeps, he dreams. That’s why he doesn’t do it often or for very long. He once made the mistake of telling Logan about his nightmares. Now the man sees it as his duty to provide him with a social life, to “…get that shit behind ya”. He’s copped out of quite a few get-togethers lately, so he has no choice other than to come this time.

 

Jean has come too. She’s brought a colleagues’ younger brother along, and introduces him to Erik as Alex. The boy is gay and handsome in a jock high-school football star way. Not dumb though; he’s currently working on his PHD in geology. Erik still feels like he’s on the wrong side of forty for the boy who doesn’t seem to mind the blatant way they’re set up nor who he’s supposed to shack up with. He makes some well-meaning attempts at flirtations that Erik tries to ignore.

 

At the end of a rather awkward night Logan gives him a pair of keys while they’re waiting at the cloak room.

“Take Alex home, that’s the least you can do.”

“Your Honda? Are you kidding me? And I’ve told you a million times that I have no interest, yet you continue-“

“You said nothing permanent. He’s here for two weeks before he goes back to university. He’s unattached and he likes you for god knows what reason. Enjoy it.” 

Erik is beyond speechless and he must glare at Logan with something that screams murder since the insufferable jerk adds: “Look, you’ve been acting weird lately, even by your standards. I want to help you but since you won’t tell me what’s going on I can only try to get you out of your shell somehow. Don’t hesitate because of the boy. Jean is close with his brother and she has told me the stories about his time in juvie. He can handle your amount of crazy.”

“I hate- I don’t need you and your insolence to get laid, I don’t-“

“Who said something about getting laid? Just be nice and take the boy home. And I’ll let you keep the bike for two weeks.” 

Erik stops.

“I don’t have helmets or jackets.”

Logan pulls his gear over the cloak room table: two helmets and padded jackets. Smug doesn’t even begin to describe the look on Logan’s face.

Erik concedes, “Four weeks. Because you’re pressuring me.”

Logan grimaces. Erik knows how much it hurts him to give up any of his precious bikes for this long, but today Logan’s agenda is stronger.

“Just this once. Promise me you’ll have fun with it.” 

They stop talking when Jean and the boy join them. They’re both so pretty and smiling so expectantly and blissfully unaware of what the men they’re looking at are.

 

During the ride Alex walks the fine line between keeping his hands to himself (as much as is possible when riding double on a bike) and subtly touching Erik. It isn’t unpleasant. At his brother’s flat he pulls off the helmet and ruffles his thick, sweaty, blond hair. 

“Thanks man, I don’t know if I would have survived a trip in the same car with those two love-birds.” He grins cheekily and Erik does something half-way similar. 

“Look, I know that this wasn’t the best night, but if you want to, you can come up, have a beer, coffee… I wouldn’t mind.” 

The boy is attractive. He’s interested, envy-inspiringly young, and won’t be around in a fortnight. There are many rational reasons why Erik should go up with him and get his brains fucked out. But this isn’t what he wants. Alex is not who he wants.

 

The air is cold on the ride back. It’s a little too early in the year for motorbikes, but Erik still enjoys the short trip. Maybe the cold air is _why_ he enjoys it.  
At home, Erik catches Francis as he’s going to bed. He’s in his underwear again and rubs at the tight t-shirt over his chest with a frown. Erik finds himself smiling as he realises Francis is trying to scrub off a dollop of dried toothpaste with unsatisfying results. With a visible sigh he takes off the shirt and goes to bed without it. Erik praises the spilled toothpaste and the milky white, sparsely haired chest with dark tiny nipples it revealed to him as he crawls under his blanket; then he thinks about pale freckled arms slung around his waist and small, strong hands fiddling with the zipper of his jacket. 

 

In the morning his job is still a road to nowhere. He still hates the people at the store and how he has to interact with them. But with the bike the commute is shorter, and when he gets home Francis is always there - reading, writing things on his tablet, unloading boxes from the Toyota in his loose jeans. Erik gets up twice to go down there and ask if he needs any help. It shouldn’t be that complicated, it’s no different than with anyone else. Except that it is, and he stays in.

 

Erik has four days of routine and the bliss of Francis all to himself. On the fifth, the catastrophe happens. Erik comes home from work to find Francis’ curtains are closed. The lights are on so Francis is home, but Erik can’t see him. Francis has noticed the curtains before but has never paid much mind to them. Now they’re closed. Now they keep Francis from him. Now he hates nothing in the world like he hates those damned pieces of cloth.

 

Erik finds himself down in the street, walking towards the entrance to Francis’ building, ready to ring the bell, ready to tell Francis to open the curtains. How did he get here? His knees wobble and almost give in at the last few steps. What is he doing?! No - what is _Francis_ doing? What is so secret that he has to exclude Erik? What has he done to him? Has he noticed him?

 

Erik looks around the empty street. No one is there, no one sees him staring at an intercom with wide crazed eyes. The familiar feel of drowning sweeps over him, the molasses tear at him, threaten to drag him away if he doesn’t catch himself in the next seconds. Hands braced on the damp stone of the wall before him Erik breathes through it, ‘til his shoulders slouch forward. This is insanity, he can’t lose it here, he can never lose it again. 

 

Slowly he turns around and goes back to his own flat.

 

Sleep has never been further away. He can’t bear to look at the other window, yet he does so the whole night through. Nothing moves except a few shadows behind those orange drapes. Indiscernible actions. There’s nothing he can do to change it.

 

In the morning he calls in sick for work. He hasn’t left his place at the window, still staring, still hoping. At 11:17am the curtains finally open. Francis is there at the window. He only wears a towel around his slim hips and his hair is wet. Erik wouldn’t bet on it, but he thinks Francis looks worse than him. There’s deep rings under his eyes, the few lines that betray his baby-face are deeper, his skin not pale but ashen, and a small cut and a bruise on his face.

 

All the anger that has been building in Erik goes mute. Francis has been hurt. By whom? WHAT WAS GOING ON IN THERE? How can he be there for Francis when the other man closes the curtains to keep him out? How can Francis be there for him? He must find something he can do!

 

His eyes land on the shoe boxes filled with electronic scrap he has brought home from work. Erik’s breath stills but his synapses fire up for the first time in a long time. He’d passed surveillance classes with high grades before - he can do it again. He rummages through the boxes and divides the content into piles according to usability. Francis leaves and for once Erik doesn’t notice.

 

In the next 28 hours he builds himself a perfectly functional set of wireless cameras and microphones, all linked to his computer and the new recording software. His old instructor would have been very pleased with him. He’s so tired he actually sleeps for 5 hours before he wakes up hungry. While he scarfs down some cereal, Francis gets up too and is about to leave with the car which means he will be gone longer. It’s time to install the cameras. 

 

The lock to the small flat is no problem for Erik and it’s only a matter of minutes before he’s standing in there - Francis’ flat. The windows are pretty good for an old, thick-walled building. He breathes deeply, absorbing the smells in the air. It’s a little stale and used, but it’s the air that went through Francis’ lungs, and it does indeed smell like he imagined it: Chinese takeaway, tea, mould, paper, and a male inhabitant as witnessed by the faint note of expensive aftershave. There is no trace of the boxes he has been carrying in since his arrival. Everything looks like it has the weeks before. Neat and clean. Erik loves it.

 

He goes straight for the files. They contain long lists of numbers and chemical equations. Test results maybe, with all the names and a lot more blackened out. Erik possesses a broader scientific knowledge than the average Joe, but this goes over his head. He smiles. He knew that Francis was smart.

 

The sofa becomes the focus of most of the cameras but Erik makes sure that he covers the rest of the flat too. Even the tiny unused kitchenette. Aside from some normal cutlery there are two scalpels in the drawers. It’s a bit weird but Erik doesn’t give it a second thought. The files on the bed and the fact that Francis’ friend Moira is a medical doctor, finally brings him to the conclusion that Francis must work in the medical field. Moira’s employed at a formerly Jewish teaching hospital, maybe Francis is…

 

Erik’s heart jumps at the ridiculous chance. He hasn’t noticed if Francis was cut, but he was far away and distracted at the time. The newly-installed camera in the miniscule bathroom may help him tell better.

 

It takes Erik a little less than an hour to set up everything. He’s very careful ensuring he leaves the flat as he found it. Before he closes the door behind him he takes a lungful of the scent from Francis’ pillow. It’s heady, traces of pleasant night sweat, shampoo, and mint from the toothpaste. He kisses the linen and ardently watches the small indents his lips left in the linen before he flattens the cover again and goes back to his place.

 

When Francis returns, he halts and looks around in his flat but doesn’t notice any of the secret changes. Already in the evening of the same day Erik realises that this has to be the best idea he has had in a very long time. How he didn’t come up with it earlier, he doesn’t know. He can see everything now, down to the freckles on Francis’ face. 

 

The camera opposite the sofa is particularly good quality and has a night vision option. For the first time he can see what Francis looks like when the lights are off. Peaceful, so much younger than he appears, snoring softly and moving his beautiful lips on occasion. He can finally hear his smooth, warm, accented voice regularly, even if it’s not that warm when he’s on the phone.

 

He does indeed fight with someone; sometimes loud and aggravated, sometimes icy, the words even more piercing in their precise fury. Frustratingly Erik still can’t tell what the fights are about without hearing the other side. Something about ‘shutting down that corrupt fucker’ and a ‘frigid bitch’ being involved in something.

 

He also calls Moira and talks about medicine, which is Erik’s biggest clue on what he does. He checks again if Francis is one of her colleagues because they sound like it, but no luck. However, it isn’t as if Erik really needed it. Now he has Francis. He can watch him from his window when he’s awake and look at the recordings when Francis is asleep. He sees how Francis wins against the chess app on his tablet, always leaves the tea bag in too long, is undeniably uncut to Erik’s dismay, and has a small digestive problem.

 

It’s no wonder with the crap he keeps eating. If Erik was with him he’d take proper care of him. Get him some vegetables, dark rice, proteins that don’t come sunk in grease. He loves to imagine cooking for Francis and sitting down together with him. It can never be, but when he sees Francis licking his dry lips for the 34000th time he decides that he will buy him a chap stick. Francis won’t suspect anything foul going on if he leaves it in his post box, would he? Or should he place it inside? He’ll do it Sunday, ‘til then he’s got time to mull it over.

 

On Friday his plan gets intercepted. When Erik comes home from work the curtains are closed again. This time Erik is prepared and switches the computer on to see what’s happening on the other side of the road. Francis is with a man. He’s very handsome with dark features and a Spanish accent. Not like the skinny red-head at all. Why did Francis not close the curtains for the boy but for this guy he does? Erik doesn’t have much time to wonder as he’s distracted by the two of them kissing and Francis slowly getting out of his clothes. Erik follows much quicker. Francis acts differently than usual, coy almost, as he bats his lashes at the other man while he bites his deep red lips. It’s irritating at best but the guy seems to get off on it as he manhandles Francis to the bed impatiently. Francis falls down on it without any hesitation. The guy talks a lot of bullshit and repeats how pretty Francis is. Erik wants to punch him in the throat. What annoys him even more is Francis’ ditzy giggle.

 

They’re down to their underwear quickly and Erik curses himself for paying so little attention to the bed but Francis hasn’t really used it before. He switches to the camera that shows them in profile, just in time to see Francis roll the guy on his back and sit down on top of him. What he almost doesn’t see is how fast Francis cuffs the guy to the bed in one quick motion. The other man is surprised too but still very much alright with it. 

“Oooh, handcuffs, you’re a kinky one!”

Francis leans forward and kisses him again. “You have no idea.”

Then he gets off him and produces two leather straps from the bed’s foot and ties down the guy’s legs. How did Erik not notice them when he was over there? And how does the guy in the bed not notice how tightly he’s bound? Or the change of expression on Francis’ face, from ditzy lover-boy back to his old self? He also doesn’t see the scalpel Francis gets from the kitchen and holds in the palm of his hand. 

“So... You gonna come back here or what? It’s not gonna ride itself.”

He bucks his hips as far as he can in the hold. It isn’t far. 

“Six months ago you and your partner took a job. A scientist. Doctor Henry McCoy. Your partner shot him and you threw the body in the harbour. What I need to know now is: who gave you the order?” 

“What?”

“You heard me. I don’t want to prolong this further than necessary.”

Model guy finally sees the surgical knife in Francis’ hand.

“Oh shit! You fucking creep! Why do I always get the-”

Francis sighs as he gets back on the bed. He sits down on the guy’s chest, who starts screaming for help before he stills completely as Francis hovers the scalpel in front of his right eye.

“I don’t want to do this, it is a very beautiful face after all. But I will. If you don’t tell me who paid you. Was it Ms Frost? Emma, leggy, blond, with no soul to speak of? One of her minions? Or was it Shaw himself?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! You’re insane!!!”

He screams as Francis cuts into his cheek and mouth. It isn’t a deep cut and doesn’t draw much blood. But it will scar, and Erik knows how much a cut like this hurts in a place with that many nerve endings.

“You can scream all you want; the neighbours aren’t here or are too drunk to care. Once again, and the next time I will take the eye: Who paid you? Was it Emma Frost?”

The guy is completely still now, save for some gasps for air under Francis’ weight. 

“I don’t know any Emma Frost. It was a guy, I never heard his name. Big build, security type. He came in one of those fancy German cars, the ones that look like a Rolls Royce. He gave us the info and the money and that’s all, I swear!”

“A Maybach?”

“Yeah, yeah!"

Francis gets up from the guy’s chest and the man sighs in relief.

“I’m sorry about your boyfriend, I really am, but I was just doing my job. I didn’t want him dead! Please let me go, I can help you find the guys who did!”

“I don’t need your help. And he wasn’t my boyfriend. He was my sister’s husband. You have no idea how important he was to us.” 

Francis gets up and cleans the knife before he puts it back. Erik can hear the muttered swearing and praying of the assassin. 

“If it’s any solace to you, you just saved a life. You confirmed your partner’s story that Emma Frost had nothing to do with it.”

“What?! Azazel is-“

“Dissolved in lye, two floors down.” 

“No! NO! You psycho, you freak! You didn’t! NOO!”

The guy bucks on the bed and pulls on the restraints with all his force but they won’t give in. Francis gets his belt from his trousers. He climbs back on top of the twisting man’s chest and holds his body in place with his thighs. The same creamy, thick thighs Erik has adored the past few weeks. 

“I am sorry too.”

He sounds like he genuinely is. Then he slings the belt around the other man’s neck and draws it tight. It doesn’t take long. He didn’t have much air to begin with, Francis’ weight and strong legs pressing out what’s left. More importantly, the belt is broad enough to cut off any blood circulation. He stops fighting after 10 seconds, gasping after 15 and after 30 seconds Erik is sure he’s dead. He has seen people trained to kill fare much worse.

 

Francis keeps pulling for another minute. Eyes closed, veins bulging under the pale skin, the soft leather of the belt grabbed firmly in his sturdy hands. When he lets it loosen he’s out of breath too, his big blue eyes wide as he flexes his hands and watches the red welts appearing on them. He checks the man’s pulse and when he’s sure there isn’t one anymore, he gets up. He shakes, but only a little. Then he collects the guy’s clothes, puts them on the bed, unties the dead body and wraps him in the linen. The bed is covered with plastic underneath. So very methodical and organised.

 

Francis ties knots into the sheet, one on top, one on the bottom, then he grabs the human package and hoists it up on his shoulder. Erik knew that his slight build and short stature were deceiving. He leaves the flat and Erik’s gaze goes up from his laptop and out the window. It is hard to believe that what he just saw happened right there right now behind those orange curtains. But it did. And the man he… loves… has just killed. Murdered someone and is about to make the body disappear in a tub of lye behind the bars of the closed sanitary store. At least now Erik knows what was in the boxes.

 

Erik lies down on his bed. He needs some time to process what has happened and think of how to go on. In his hands he has the evidence to solve a murder. Evidence he acquired in a ridiculously illegal way. Evidence he could only send in anonymously because of his immigration status. This is his first option. Francis could go to death row although it’s not very likely since the victim was an assassin for hire and Francis should have the money for a good lawyer. Still, this most definitely would go on trial. Francis deliberately killed two people and was planning to kill another one. 

 

From a moral standpoint handing him over to the police is Erik’s only option. But since when does Erik give a shit about morals? His second option is to stay quiet. Let Francis live his life and keep on living his miserable own, hidden in his nest with the perfect view into Francis’ apartment. Ignore his love’s quirks. Ignore his love’s troubles and problems he can’t solve without resorting to murder.

 

In the end Erik decides to go with the third option. On his notepad he writes down three names:  
 __  
Henry McCoy  
Emma Frost  
Shaw  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took me what, seven months, to post this? Aw man... I'm so sorry. The last chapter should be done sooner. Hopefully. 
> 
>  
> 
> And hand-wavey business practices ahead!

The girl is the key.

 

Her youthful face was all over the economy magazines and gossip rags in the past few weeks.   
If Erik paid any mind to the news he would have known earlier. Two months ago Raven McCoy, head of Xavier Invest - an investment company which holds their securities mainly in development and research facilities - drunkenly accused Sebastian Shaw, CEO of HF Pharmaceuticals, of murdering her husband. Since then his representatives ran a smear campaign against her. Too young (Erik was shocked to read that she was 31, he would have put her in her mid-twenties), too inexperienced, and lacking a proper education to lead a big money company. Too emotionally unstable, too vulnerable and hysterical. Not fit societally as she was a bastard, left at her rich father’s doorstep when she was seven, by a motherwho was never to be seen again.

 

The next point on her biography was how she inherited the company at nineteen, when said father disappeared without a trace and the shareholder acted quickly to replace their former, tougher figure-head with an easily mallable child. Her older half-brother, the legitimate heir to the fortune, didn’t show any interest in the position. This brother’s profile was kept even lower. Born 34 years ago he went to Oxford at 21, to return with two PHDs to the States just six years later. And now he lives in a dingy apartment across from Erik. 

 

This brother, Charles Xavier, is Erik’s Francis.

 

Erik rolls the name on his tongue. Charles… Charles… he likes the sound of it. It’s a strong old name. Fitting for a man who went to Oxford, of all places. Biophysics, Genetics.   
Up until four months ago, when Dr Henry McCoy disappeared, he used to sit on the Board of Trustees of Moira’s hospital. That’s why Erik never found him. He was looking for a member of staff, not where the money came from. Even though Dr McCoy had married wealthy, he was employed at the hospital as well.

 

“Apparently he did some studies: drug trials. When he disappeared the files went missing too. It was all a bit suspicious, but the police couldn’t find any connection to Shaw.”

Armando sips on his espresso and leans back in the faux old-timey armchair. Erik avoids coffee shops like the plague that they are, but Armando wouldn’t meet him anywhere else (‘Haven’t seen you in such a long time.’ ‘We don’t need to meet at post boxes and dark alleys anymore, you know?’). In his whole career Erik had never found out which agency Armando actually belonged to. But whoever they are, their media surveillance branch is excellent. 

“The thing is, I wouldn’t put it past Sebastian Shaw to off any possible danger to his company. The guy is sleek and more than shady. The information we have in our archive, you won't blieve it! Lobbying, corruption, black money no one knows the source of and there are indications that he bought himself more than one congressman.

“But nothing you can pin him on, of course. He’s slippery as an eel. And it’s mostly thanks to the work of his publicist. The name Frost fits if you ask me. There can’t be much warmth, nevermind a soul left in someone doing the dirty work for this guy. She even almost managed to hide where his family originally got their wealth from. And this is really something for you, they were big players in WWII and let’s just say that they switched to the right side in the last possible moment.”

Erik’s face darkens and Armando hastily brings the subject back on point. 

“What I’m trying to say is, it’s a shame the widow is getting the heat. The guy is an asshole. She acted impulsively towards him once and now she has to calm the clients of her own firm day after day. It’s not as if her own people did trust her to begin with. Her father kept her hidden throughout her youth. Apart from some pics of her the day her stepmother was buried, there’s almost nothing until she took over the firm."

“The old Xavier went missing one day, around the same time our guys were closing in on a circle he was doing illegal business with. When he was gone, two of his accounts on the Caymans were dissolved and some of the money went to free clinics. Bastard still left his children. The girl was not ready I guess, a home-schooled brat who never went to university. She paints though, does exhibitions. Weird stuff, but what do I know.”

Not much more than Erik, apparently. Raven’s paintings are abstracts in dark colours. Nothing that’d change history but Erik likes what he saw in the catalogues he studied.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re so interested in this case?”

“It came up at work…”

“Work. Are you still selling that junk?”

“No. I quit last week.” Without any explanation. His boss was furious but what does Erik care? He doesn’t need the money nor any recommendations. Not for what he’s doing now. 

 

Last week he camped out in front of Raven McCoy’s office. Charles showed up as he pretended to read the newspaper on his lap. They hugged and he kissed her on the cheek. She didn’t push him away but held him tighter. For a long time.

 

Erik never had a sister. He didn’t have enough time with his real family before they were killed. What does it feel like to grow up with someone? To have them around permanently? To know someone so intimately, to know every detail about another human’s personality that you can love and cherish or despise? How does it feel to be this close to someone? How does it feel to love unconditionally, above all restrictions and social norms? 

 

Because that is what the Xavier siblings do. Even if he hadn’t seen Charles kiss his sister that day at his apartment, he’d know of what nature their feelings for each other are. The way she takes his arm as they walk through the rain. How their steps are of the same rhythm, the same litheness. The way he glares at the few people who recognise her and turn their heads. How cautious he is with her. Not like men usually are, like they’re handling a hurt animal or worse, a child. No, as if she was a treasure to be handled with admiration and care. The only question that remains for Erik, as he sees them and wishes to be a part of them, is if she is worthy of this kind of love. 

 

He follows her to an exhibition. A famous photographer Erik has never heard of is showing in a newly opened gallery. He does his best to mingle with the crowd. The pictures are pretentious and filled with pompous claim. The people around him repulse him in their airiness and insubstantiality. Raven McCoy is a good actress. She feigns interest in a believable and polite manner but Erik, whose attention is solely on her, sees the cracks in the façade. It’s not boredom; it’s an oversaturation with the world around her.

 

After a while she manages to cut herself loose and sneaks out to phone someone. It’s Charles. Erik pretends to smoke down the alley where he still can hear her. The conversation isn’t long or very verbose, but after a moment of silence she asks him to give her strength, and he can see how some of the tension leaves her body when he does.

 

Two days later, he first meets Emma Frost. Charles is watching her from his car. Erik is watching Charles. He thinks the all-white ensembles she seems to favour are a bit tacky but people of power can afford tackiness. The crowd practically parts as she is making her way to the town car. No one dares to look her in the face, an admirable trait in its own way.

 

Charles chooses that moment to leave, presumably to attend a meeting with a university official who wants him back, of which Erik had heard Charles arrange the night before. He won’t manage to get close to Charles during, so he decides to follow Emma Frost on Logan’s bike.

 

She brings him to Sebastian Shaw. Or his mansion outside the city to be precise. It’s a fortress. No person with nothing to hide would ever live in something like it. There are security cameras covering every square inch, a team of armed guards at disposal every hour of the day, and a pack of trained dogs patrolling the grounds.   
His apartment in the city, however, is far less secure. Sebastian Shaw’s unofficial girlfriend, a pretty, petite Latina in her early 20s stays there. When Erik scopes the place out she comes back from a shopping trip, a bodyguard thrice her size at her side. Erik can’t tell if he’s supposed to protect her or keep her from running. 

 

When he comes home he watches Charles. He’s going over the files anew. Erik just wants to cradle him to his chest and tell him to let go. They won’t tell him more than he already knows. Erik is all too familiar with this feeling. Reaching this kind of impasse, this feeling of utter powerlessness and the frustration it goes hand in hand with. Erik had shot the wrong man because of it six years ago.

 

Charles throws the files against the wall before he almost compulsively collects everything again. He storms out in the night only to return twenty minutes later with the red-headed boy slung around him. This time they’re on the bed. It’s rough, brutal and quick. The boy, ‘Sean’, enjoys it as much as Erik does. Erik comes, curled up on his own bed, when Charles growls his orgasm between the boy’s bony shoulder blades. No money is exchanged this time. They fall asleep tangled together on the bed and Erik listens to their breathing ‘til the early hours of the morning. 

 

In the next few days it dawns on Erik: Charles is going to kill Shaw. He was consciously aware of this much sooner, but the realisation had only begun to sink in as he watched his love stock up on supplies. Containers of lye, horse tranquiliser, rope. As much care as he puts into the preparation of the act, as very little goes into the actual logistics. He only scoops out the main mansion, the one which is impossible to enter. He gets a copy of Shaw’s time-planner and checks the dates of public outings. Does he plan to murder the man in broad daylight? Confusion and rage swell in Erik. He adores the meticulousness of the other man, why is he throwing everything overboard?

 

Charles is just in the middle of unpacking a roll of duct tape, when his doorbell rings. It’s Raven. She’s pale as death and her eyes are big and strangely empty.

“They found Hank. The divers called me. They found him.”

Charles, who had only reluctantly opened the door, catches his sister as she falls forward. She cries out loud and long, everything breaking loose. The audio is unclear. Too many words are streaming out of the so very young-looking woman. 

“500 metres from where you tipped them… couldn’t look… the weights… skull…”

Charles carries her to the sofa and Erik can hear his sobs mingle with hers. 

“I knew, you told me, weeks ago just here… But, but a part of me still hoped, still believed… He’s gone… I won’t ever see him again…” She presses her face into Charles’ neck, the sound of her weeps muffled and stifled. Charles strokes her hair, like he did the first time Erik saw her all those weeks ago; when he had no idea who he was watching. How important these people would become to him. 

When she sits up to reach for a tissue her eyes fall onto a container of lye. 

“Charles…”

“It has to be done. He doesn’t deserve to be alive.”

“You CAN’T DO THIS! Hank would never…”

“I know. I know Hank would never approve. No, listen to me, I know it won’t bring him back either. I know that killing Shaw won’t right anything. But a man who walks through life thinking he owns everything, who thinks he can take away what’s so important to others… to us…” 

Tears spill from his eyes and she hiccups. 

“Don’t do it” she whispers. “I want nothing as much as to see Shaw burn. But don’t burn with him.” The woman slips even closer. “You are gentle Charles. This is not you. This destroys who YOU are.” 

“I want to protect you. I’ve failed you before. Now I can do it.”

“Charles, you never failed…”

“I could do it with the others and I can do it with him. If father taught me anything, it is knowing when not to feel. There is more of him in me than I’d ever ask for.”

“NO! Don’t talk like that! You’re not him, do you understand me? There is nothing like him. You never failed me Charles, you made me survive him.”

Charles looks at her and cries silently. Something is going on between them that can’t be said. And doesn’t have to be said. 

“I want to protect you too, you fool. I don’t want you to risk everything on this. I don’t want to lose you. I need the people I love.” 

Charles’ tears dry wordlessly and Erik doesn’t think he looked better at any time before, when his composure returns and a feverish hope glimmers in his wet eyes. 

“I do love you so much, it hurts sometimes. I was hoping it’d go away, but it never did.”

“I know. God, I know…” 

She leans in, hesitant for a second, clumsy, but then she unreservedly kisses Charles’ lips. His stifled, pained sigh of relief is loud even in Erik’s apartment. 

“Please…”

 

She kisses him again and he embraces her tighter. They kiss, touch, feel for a long time. Erik is enraptured by how their bodies melt together. The way they tear at each other, drag each other in, all fluid motions. Erik is not aroused; to him this is something above sexuality. It is as if he could see the indentions on the bed where he’d lie. Wrapped around Charles as he holds his sister snug on the bed. All fully clothed. Breaths coming in the same rhythm as they fall asleep. Erik not only watches them, he feels them. He’s with them. And the revelation of what he has to do comes to him, clearer than the sky of the cold night. 

 

Getting in is not difficult. A few cameras, easily circumvented. The alarm is switched off, the main inhabitant is home.

 

Erik checks the girl’s pulse before he goes into the bedroom. The needle she used on her arm lies openly next to her, as if she wants her keeper to find it. But she’s breathing and her heart beats slowly. Her bodyguard in the entrance hall is listening to music and reads some gossip rags. It won’t be long now.

 

He checks the silencer one last time. 

 

A male voice comes from the living room where the girl is dreaming her life away. It’s annoyed and angry. Something falls to the floor with a loud thump and the voice laughs. Then the door to the bedroom opens revealing a slight man, average height, full hair, expensive suit. Inconspicuous. Not a single bit more intimidating than one out of the masses he puppeteers. 

 

The man curses as the light switch doesn’t work. It won’t work tonight no matter how hard he tries. 

 

Erik made it so. 

 

Masked by the darkness alone, he steps forward in complete silence. It’s broken by two sharp clicks. Sebastian Shaw slumps forward against his bedroom wall with a dull sound.

 

He never sees the face of the man who puts the bullets in his head.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, it didn't take me seven months this time but more than a year. Aw man... I don't know what it is about this fic. But it's more or less finished now and I will post the remaining chapters over the next few days. I hope y'all enjoy. 
> 
> Also my eternal thanks to the ever-amazing [ lachatblanche](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lachatblanche/pseuds/lachatblanche) who sorted out the mess that was this part. You are the best! <333

**_6 months later_ ******

Erik walks out of the tiny grocery store with a big grin on his face. He likes Mrs Gomme. She’s a vile, venomous anti-Semite with a capacity for ignorance that Erik hasn’t seen in a long time but her rants are a never-ending source of amusement to him. It also helps that she very obviously is attracted to him and keeps flirting in this lovely old lady bigot kind of way. It gives his fantasies of cleaning this earth of her presence a whole new flavour. But no, this isn’t the way to go. Killing isn’t always the solution. Maybe he ought to make a few helpful suggestions to the teenaged boys he trains at the MMA centre instead. They sure need more outlets for their youthful exuberance and frankly there’s no better way for young people to bond together than by putting the fear of god into a racist old bat.

Besides, he’d promised Armando.

Armando had of course figured out who was behind the assassination of Sebastian Shaw as soon as he’d heard about it. His colleagues at the police department and the FBI, however, weren’t that successful. Raven McCoy was a prime suspect for a while, as was her brother. Both, however, appeared genuinely surprised by the news and Raven’s reaction of thanking whoever did it greatly reduced the suspicion surrounding them – as did the siblings’ alibis and the fact that they immediately opened the Xavier bank accounts to the authorities. Upon investigation they found payments for a ratty apartment the search of which revealed absolutely nothing. It was squeaky clean; Erik had made sure of that. They also found payments to a Sean Cassidy, whose number of priors for prostitution in combination with the apartment, led the investigators to the conclusion that the inconspicuous Professor Xavier was a lonely creep but not a murderer. The focus shifted to Shaw’s kept girl but lab tests paid for by the former publicist of her sugar daddy proved that the attacker had to be 5'9'' at least and 5'1 Angel Salvadore therefore was physically incapable of shooting him.

Erik doesn’t care if or why Emma Frost tried to redeem herself this way but it came as a relief to not see the girl arrested for something he did.

The most laborious theory involves the unfurling of Shaw’s businesses at HF Pharmaceuticals. Raven McCoy’s accusations put his partners under pressure and even the shortest glance at their practices exposed a number of reasons why they’d prefer to keep things quiet. The major investigations took this route, but after six months alternative conspiracy theories have started to sprout on pertinent sites of the World Wide Web. A blackmailed congressman fought back when his daughter’s honour was smudged by Shaw’s schemes; the fact that NS memorabilia was found in Shaw’s house and that he was shot with a weapon favoured by Israeli agents meant that the Mossad was behind it; an African millionaire philanthropist ordered his execution for what he had done to his countrymen, etc.

Armando didn’t want a reason. He just looked at him, slightly terrified, and cut their meeting short by saying:

“This is the last time, Lehnsherr. You have no clearance, you cannot, can not, just go around murdering American citizens.”

“He deserved it.”

“I do not doubt that. Hell, I’m sure that there are more people than the Xaviers thankful for what you did… You did it for them didn’t you?”

Erik nods curtly.

“But they didn’t pay you… do they even know? What the hell was in it for you?”

Erik shrugs but before he can even open his mouth Armando stops him.

“No wait, I don’t even wanna know. You’re a special kind of weirdo and I’m not so sure anymore that you’re not the kind that’s too dangerous to be left roaming around on their own devices. Also, for future reference, I’ll be keeping an eye on you and I won’t ever help you again with anything that isn’t organising a children’s birthday party. Understood?”

“Understood. So you’d help me with a children’s birthday party? ” Erik grins and Armando rolls his eyes before sighing.

“Just, please, please don’t do anything stupid.”

Erik steps inside the vegan coffee shop/bakery for some cherry cake. The décor is meant to remind people of tea at their great aunt’s, all ironic of course, but somehow Erik isn’t that appalled by it. The owner smiles at him and Erik grins back. This neighbourhood is ridiculously hip, luvvie, and even more ridiculously expensive but there are perks that come with it. Jean loves the cakes and even Logan doesn’t seem to mind the ‘rabbit food’ - as he usually calls it - too much.

His steps are easy up the stairs of the apartment complex when he sees the black Maserati cabriolet leaving. He was right to give it ten more minutes. Raven is the chaotic one in their relationship and is always late. He watches the blonde and brown heads of hair until they reach the end of their street. Back inside his home he unloads his shopping and checks the monitors. The apartment below his is empty; Charles and Raven are going upstate. The handover of their ancestral home to a charitable group that provides an excellent education for underprivileged children has been completed. All three agreed that this is the best idea one night over at Raven’s place. Well, Erik was at his place watching them make the decision but he isn’t that much of a stickler for details.

The manor is enormous and it took Erik hours to walk the full perimeter but he definitely could see how this is a great place for a school. They’re keeping a guesthouse on the southern border of the premises for themselves and Erik can also see why. The house did look rather comfy when he installed the third equipment.

He gives it another thirty minutes to make sure that the tracker on the Maserati really is leaving town and they don’t turn back. Then he goes over his list for the weekend. So far everything is on track. The flowers are at the guest house, chocolates for Raven too, and the heating engineer should arrive tomorrow at ten to fix the clattering sound in Charles’ study downstairs. He’s meeting Logan and Jean tonight - they’re bringing a friend of Jean’s co-worker this time, also far too young but after a quick look on the young man’s Instagram, facebook and tumblr, Erik might give this James a try. Not immediately though. He will drive out to the suburbs tomorrow afternoon to mingle with the sort who think themselves generous and altruistic. And also spend some time with Charles. No actual contact, not yet, he isn’t ready yet and neither is Charles. But a good look at him through his own eyes and not through a camera lens, Charles’ words in his ears when he makes a toast, maybe even some polite words exchanged between them during introductions… It’s a big party, more than 500 people are invited and Erik will blend in perfectly. The new classy blue suit he bought himself for the occasion definitely will take care of it.

He goes to try it on again in Charles’ bedroom.

He looks rather fetching, he has to say, and is sure that Charles will think so too- if he sees him. If this weekend goes well then the next step in building their connection is taken. Like they always say: relationships need work and Erik is willing to work on this one with as much patience as any man can muster. Any irresistible urges that may arise from being in such close proximity to Charles he can work out with this James that Jean and Logan are bringing him.

In the adjunct bathroom he goes over Charles’ soaps and towels which are in impeccable order. He lets his finger glide over the soft, folded material and sighs. Like always he can’t resist to take the bottle of aftershave and to put some on his wrists. It opens with a little crunch and then the spicy odour fills his nostrils. Perfection.

Carefully, he undresses and sets the alarm clock of his phone to 11:30. Charles made his bed himself, not exactly with the same military precision as Erik does, but still. He crawls into it and sighs again. It’s so much more comfortable than the sofa and it smells just as wonderful. Erik takes a few deep breaths from the soft pillow and curls into a tight ball underneath the blanket. He isn’t a philosopher but he’s certain that the source of happiness must lie somewhere between finely threaded sheets and the smell of Charles’ freshly washed hair. He takes another few deep breaths and falls asleep in less than a minute; sleeping the deep sleep of the just.


	5. Sean

_**6 months before the disappearance of Dr Henry McCoy** _

Sean traces the melting ice cube with the tiny lemon green skewer. As long as there is a little left in his glass the tender will leave him be at his end of the bar. Or at least he hopes so, because Sean doesn’t have enough money to buy even the most basic food for next week, never mind another Mai Tai. The club he’s at is expensive and he’s too young to be in it but the hip, open-minded and, most importantly, wealthy clientele is the only way out of his current predicament. 

In the last few months he has become better at this, but the liquid courage still helps. Or maybe he needs it more than in the beginning. He’d drastically lowered his expectations for who might be interested in his offer. The slightly profligate and glamorous air has vanished very quickly and now he’s mostly happy when the guys he picks up don’t have some dangerously creepy kink and use a condom. 

He carefully turns his stool around to look at the gathering crowd. There’s a tall guy in his late twenties, a little gawky but cute. Sean wouldn’t mind him that much, he thinks, but acknowledges his interest is in vain when the man draws a blonde bombshell in his arms and kisses her affectionately. Behind her though is another man, shorter, impeccably dressed in a posh shirt and beige slacks. Great ass, Sean thinks, but as his eyes wander up he realises with horror that he already has spent quite some time staring at that pert bottom. Professor Xavier gave three guest lectures in the series on biochemical engineering at the local university. Distracting Sean most of the time with his warm, accented voice, the lovely brown locks and those blue, blue eyes. Eyes which are all of a sudden directed at him. There’s recognition in them and Sean all but freezes. It can’t be, they barely spoke; all he did was ask a few questions at the end of the lectures. There were more than 200 people present, how… Damnit, he’s coming over! There’s a reason why Sean works the bars far off campus; : to absolutely avoid situations such as this one.

“Mr Cassidy, lovely to see you here.”

“Professor Xavier.” 

He habitually schools his voice to be more honeyed and alluring on the nights out but he inevitably resorts to his usual squeaking when he talks to a man who was his teacher. 

There is an amused and comically exaggerated frown on the professor’s face.

“If I remember correctly, you’re an undergrad, Mr Cassidy. This is a club for people over 25.”

“I know the bouncer” he mumbles. “I’m sorry to ask, sir, but how do you remember me in the first place? And my name too?”

“Mr Cassidy, I don’t forget the bright minds actually interested in my longwinded babblings about the genome.”

That probably was a compliment but Sean is still confused as fuck and it must show. 

“Eidetic memory, I fear. I never forget the face of someone I’ve talked to.” 

That’s pretty rad. , Sean thinks, but apparently says it out loud too, since Professor Xavier gives him the most gorgeous smile.

“You could call it that. People don’t usually react so positively - let me buy your next drink as a sign of my gratitude.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to…” but Sean sounds about as sincere as he is, so Professor Xavier just grins and orders another Tai for him and a beer for himself. 

“Are you here with some friends?”

“I… no.” 

That earns him a sharp, assessing look as Professor Xavier lifts the bottle to his red lips and takes a sip, the muscles of his white, bared throat working so beautifully and the exposed skin where he has unbuttoned the striped shirt… God he stares again.

“You’re here on your own?”

“Yes…”

Sean doesn’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the second Mai Tai he basically inhales and the direness of his current situation, maybe the respect he gained for Professor during the lecture, so young but already well established. Maybe the warm, understanding aura the man has that just invites you to trust him, but he starts spilling it all. 

From how he was accepted to the college of his dreams, to how he got thrown out of the dorm for a few grams of marihuana, to how his very Catholic mother cut him off when told her in the drunken vicious fight that followed that he was and always would be gay; to how he has resorted to turning tricks since every honest job would either cut too much into his college hours or wouldn’t bring in enough money to pay for food, rent and tuition fees; to how he got arrested for it twice already. 

Professor Xavier listens intently with an actual worried frown growing on his handsome face. 

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have told you that. It’s just that I sometimes feel like I could burst! Like I could scream everything from the top of a building.” 

The ‘and thrown myself after’ remains unspoken but Professor Xavier probably hears it anyway. 

“Again, I’m so sorry. Please, don’t let me ruin your evening any further.” 

He looks up to the couple Professor Xavier came in with and sees them giggling and slowly swaying together. The professor stays quiet and looks into their direction too. The tall guy catches his eyes and a small happy smile blooms on his lips; the professor smiles too, much weaker and quickly averts his head. That was…peculiar. 

“Straight guys, huh? That’s always complicated. I spilled my life to you, you can return the favour if you want.”

Xavier smirks and takes another sip of his beer. 

“It’s very complicated, too complicated, but thank you anyways.”

With a daring smile and a flirty tone Sean tries to lift the mood.

“You know, professor, we totally should make out. Make him jealous. I mean, the lady is hot, but that guy is clearly missing out.”

Professor Xavier’s eyes light up in a way Sean has never seen before, dangerous and attractive at the same time and in a tenor that goes straight to Sean’s groin he says: “Is that so?” 

“Yes. I could suck you in the men’s room too if you wanted. One on the house for having to listen to my outburst.” 

This apparently is very funny as Professor Xavier suddenly lets out a loud laugh and Sean feels twice the fool. “I’m sorr-“

“No, no, stop apologising. The thing is, I actually came over with something like that in mind. Not so explicitly formed yet but yeah, something along those lines. I was quite certain you’d be interested, I noticed you looking during the lectures, Mr Cassidy. Your first name is Sean, isn’t it?”

“Yes...” He can’t believe he’s fucking blushing.

“Hello Sean, I’m Charles. Just to make sure, I was very flattered by the looking. And the proposition just now. You’re a handsome young man, Sean, but it sounds like you have enough problems at hand already and a lecherous old professor probably isn’t helping.”

“Not old! Or lecherous. You’re super hot. I’m serious man, I would’ve gone down on you in front of the whole class in a heartbeat if I’d known you were interested. And I would now too. But I need money if I want to live on more than a run-off cup of pot-a-noodles the next three days. As much as I want to sleep with you, I need to find someone who pays tonight.”

Saying out loud gives what he’s actually doing here, selling himself - being a whore, - another real dimension. This is all so fucked-up. 

But Professor Xavier, Charles, only looks at him quietly, a pensive fault forming on his forehead. After quite some time he asks with his mellifluous voice: “And if I paid you?”

“What? No, you don’t have to do that, I don’t want you to do something you wouldn’t…”

“Listen Sean, what if I paid you not only tonight, but the next nights too? We’ll see how it goes and maybe we can come to an arrangement. You don’t have to work the bars anymore and I don’t…”

He looks over at the necking couple again. 

“Please, this is just an idea. You can say no at any point if you want.” That’s something Sean hasn’t heard in a while so to bring back some light-heartedness he says.

“Are you offering to be my sugar daddy?” 

Charles cringes. “Oh God, if you say it like that it sounds really horrible.”

“No, no I’m just joking. Seriously, I could live with that. I mean we’ll have to try first but so far I have absolutely no problem with the idea from my part.” 

Sean clasps his hand over Charles’ and smiles his brightest, sunniest smile. Then he looks over at the tall guy again who stopped sucking on his girlfriend’s lips and currently is engaged in an animated discussion with another man next to him. Sean inches closer to Charles and wraps one arm over his shoulder. 

“You would help me out of my situation and I would help you out of whatever that is. It’d be mutually beneficial on many, many levels.”

The corners of Charles’ mouth twitch at that, not really indicating an opinion, but his hand finds Sean’s waist. He smells rather amazing and Sean can’t help but lean further into the touch, swaying his hips close to Charles’ crotch. 

“Should we start trying how it works now?” He licks his lips a little, voice as husky as he can muster without sounding cheesy. The blue eyes are glued on him; men are somehow all quite predictable. 

With no further ado he plants his lips on Charles who doesn’t immediately respond, but when Sean presses closer, he opens his mouth and allows hungry and exploring kisses. With his eyes closed and back turned, Sean cannot see the blonde woman watching them, nor the content, relieved smile on her beautiful face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, chapter 4 actually was the last we saw of Erik but there's something in here that's very important for his story. I hope it came across.


	6. Raven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra warning for some gore, abusive language, more explicit incest and a special kind of homicide. Sorry Cat! 
> 
> But then: it's finished. OMG it's finally finished...

 

**_12 ½ years earlier_**

 

The noises he makes are the worst. Raven can deal with the blood and the body writhing on the floor. The gurgling, wheezing noises, however... they’re so loud in the empty, old house. The man on the floor is trying to speak but has lost the ability to articulate. He, who controlled everything. Who could yank the chain he had tied so fast around her neck with one disapproving look. Now he can’t even talk. Brian Xavier isn’t dead yet but it’s only a matter of time. She has hit him with all her might, she could hear his skull crack. What he’s smearing on the floor in spastic movements probably isn’t just blood.

He lets out another inhuman groan. His arms flap next to his body as if they weren’t a part of him and his right leg pushes him further in the direction of the huge bookshelf at the other end of his study. Raven steps back but can’t avert her eyes. Her father looks bizarre. Exposed… vulnerable. Mortal.

His eyes focus on her briefly and he lets out a growling noise. Only 15 minutes ago he called her a slut in the same tone. ‘Just like your mother’. 15 minutes ago and the whole of her adolescent life. She’s used to it and it barely registers on her cracked shields. What he threatened to do to Charles though… The golf tournament award was in her hand quicker than any clear thought could stop her.

Two times her hands came down on him; with the force of a lifetime of abuse breaking through. It was enough to end a monster. Raven sits back on the sofa and watches her father jerk like a worm cut in half. Charles’ quick steps resound through the hallway and she looks up from the grisly scene in front of her. She has phoned him, down at the guesthouse where he was waiting for her. Now he stands in the doorframe sweating and out of breath. He ran up all the way. His eyes wander between the only two members left of his family.

‘Smart boy’. Charles is smart, no matter how mocking the tone of Brian Xavier’s voice was whenever he said it, and he immediately connects the dots. The inquiries from Charles’ school funding agency, the new locks on Raven’s door, the many doctor appointments… He walks over to the bloody body and pushes their father on his back with his boot. Raven’s attack was an act of impulse. No real awareness of what has happened has seeped in yet; no catharsis reached yet. But all her emotions flow to the surface when Charles screams in the face of his father. It’s a wordless eruption. The faggot, who isn’t good enough to bear the family name, who has no friends because no one wants to be with someone this pathetic and weak. The freak who can’t get it up with the women his father brings for him, but gets off touching his sister. The sister, the princess, who has to be a virgin and available to all the men at the same time; who could give Brian Xavier a real heir. Charles kicks the worm to his feet, once, twice, three times and the sounds change to an animalistic whimpering.

“SHUT UP!!!!!! Sssshut upppp!!!”

Raven watches as her brother falls to his knees and hits the dark mass in the bloodied face multiple times before he closes his hands around their father’s throat. There is some struggle left in the uncoordinated limbs but it ebbs away with the tick of the longcase clock and Charles’ pained warbling. He is holding on still. Long after any life has left the body on the ground. Until his sister’s hands touch his shoulders and she sinks down next to him.

“He’s dead.”

Charles looks back, his eyes are wet, but he doesn’t seem to notice. The anger and hate leave, his face and bloodied fingers let go of the broken throat. All Raven can think of is how beautiful he is like this so she pulls him in and kisses him. There is always an urgency in his kisses. Like he’s never sure how long he is allowed to taste, always wanting to make the most of it. Raven dissolves in his warmth, his tenderness, his adoration. The safety she feels here. Time is lost as their embrace turns into a long, tight hug on the hard floor. The blood on her dress is dry when he breaks the silence.

“What shall we do now?”

Raven looks down on what is left of their father. Cold eyes, half-closed in an empty grimace.

“We have to get rid of this.”

What they did was just; if people knew about the man their father really was they would understand. But she doesn’t trust a jury of their peers to see with eyes unclouded by status and money. She will not let it get this far. Charles nods slowly, so perfectly in tune with what she thinks, and stands up with an arm outstretched for her..

“We have to make him disappear.”

Make him go away even further. Further than death.

Charles has this concentrated, focused look on his face that reminds her of Brian, but without the cruelty, without the pain. Nothing like Brian at all.

“Let’s carry him to the Jaguar. I’ll drive out to Eugene’s Bush and bury him. Hide the car there and sell it in a few months when things have settled down.”

Raven nods. “Some of his clothes have to go to. I’ll burn them. And clean up this mess.”

She looks at the red traces on the floor. How often has she fantasised about this moment? Of just killing him? Now they’ve done it; she realises that Charles has thought of this too. He looks at her, almost proud, and gives her a short peck on the lips.

“Come on, we’ll have to move him.”

The house is empty. It’s one of Brian Xavier’s rules that all service personnel have to leave the house at 10pm maximum. Their cottages are far down at the other side of the garden. Far away enough not to disturb him whenever his elusive guests arrive. Far away enough for them not to have any influence on his precious children. Raven and Charles stuff his corpse into the limousine; he’s lighter than they assumed. Brian Xavier never was a physically imposing man. He never had to be.

Charles leaves the garage and Raven walks back to the study. Outside she can hear the engine of the car firing up loudly. Just like their father used to drive. Used to… The tears start flowing as she stands in the bathroom washing the red splatters on her arms. She has killed her father. She and Charles have committed a murder, she bashed in her father’s head and Charles cut off his air. They are free now.

She cries all the way through cleaning the floor of the study. They will have to replace the sofa blanket they wrapped him in. She cries as she searches for her father’s passport and burns it in her own fireplace. She heaves and the sobs turn drier. She gathers his clothes, selects the ones that would be most believable for a long trip to Mexico. When Charles returns hours later she isn’t crying anymore. She’s tired and wrung out but her brother is in a far worse condition and needs her help.

Charles is covered in mud; his eyes are as bleary as Raven’s and his hands are full of open blisters. She carefully disinfects them and gets him out of his soiled clothes. They don’t speak a word during, but when the worst of the dirt is gone and he soaks in the bathtub, she joins him. The tension doesn’t fully go away, but the warm water loosens them and the feel of the beloved naked skin on hers, gives her comfort unlike anything else. When they huddle up on Raven’s bed in fluffy bathrobes, the first rays of the sun are showing on the horizon. Both Xaviers are fully aware that things will change now for better and for worse. They won’t be able to go on like this. But they like to pretend they could as they fall asleep in each other’s arms.

 

\-------------------------------------------

 

Many years later Raven is on her way to pick Charles up from his apartment. It’s a sunny day in mid-June. It’s warm, not too hot yet but the city soon will be sweltering. It will be good to get out of here for a while. She desperately needs a change of scenery. Hank’s remains were finally released and they buried him last week. Raven cried for him like she had all the times before but a part of her has run dry. This life, this life that she thought she could build herself with this wonderful, sweet and innocent, oh so innocent man was over. It had been taken from her and the man who took it had paid a price. And it wasn’t her brother who made him do so.

At first she was sure that it was Charles’ work, that all of her intervening had been in vain. But when she’d screamed at him over the phone he’d been surprised and completely baffled. Charles was honest and didn’t lie to her, especially not about things like this. She still made him swear on her life that he had nothing to do with it. The interest of the police faded with time, as did that of the press. There were two or three reporters at the funeral but that was it. She will have to face a few more tomorrow and explain why they would give a mansion like this away for free: out of the belief that children are the future. That wealth should be shared amongst the ones who need it. Because her late husband was a good person and would have wanted it. All of that, and nothing of how this is the only way of purging this hellhole of what happened there without torching it. She and Charles considered it laughingly over a glass of wine. Sitting on the roof of the guesthouse and watching it burn to the ground until nothing but ashes are left.

When the laughter dwindled, they kissed like they used to. Hot, scorching and driven. They made love on Raven’s couch for the first time in so many years. A bit clumsy with each other at first, but it didn’t take long ‘til limbs and skin remembered how to move in perfect unison. In the simmering afterglow Raven realised that this is what she chooses, no matter how fucked-up and impossible it is.

She can’t speak for Charles.

He isn’t attached to the inappropriately young red-head who clearly adores him. His testimony helped them immensely in dispersing the suspicion though, and Raven is fond of him. She was from the beginning actually, since it was she, after all, who had pushed Charles in the direction of the boy. She hopes he isn’t too let down, and maybe even hopes that he isn’t let down at all.

The last time it was her decision to separate from Charles. It was the only rational decision. Circumstances left them no choice, and it was good for both of them, in retrospect. She knew that there would again come a time when they couldn’t keep this up anymore, when things would get too difficult. But while her sense of self-preservation had won the last time and they’d both known that Charles would be better off at university, she wouldn’t do it this time. This time it’s Charles’ turn, and she will enjoy it for as long as he decides it should last.

He walks down the stairs of his apartment, uncommonly tardy. There is a solemn expression on his face that clears as soon as he sees her. He’s open, happy and so clearly in love with her like he used to be in the beginning of their renewed liaison but there is something clouding his spirits lately.

“Everything alright?”

Charles leans over the door on her side and kisses her on the cheek. Sweet and soft but something’s different; he smells different.

“Yes, sorry love, I had to check something.” He gives her a smile that only ever she will be able to tell is a little fake.

“No aftershave? What’s up with that? Did it disappear alongside your holey socks?”

“Maybe... I’ll know for sure pretty soon.”

She meant to tease but there’s an unnerving glint to Charles’ eyes, one she hasn’t seen often on her brother. However, when her brows furrow he laughs it away.

“Don’t worry. I’m just kidding, everything’s fine.”

“Okay…”

He climbs in the passenger seat and kisses her on the cheek again, tenderly, before he takes a look around and sneaks in a short kiss on her lips too.

“Yes. It really is. Let’s make some children happy, shall we?”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Burn It To Ashes (Front Window Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8130712) by [Gerec](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gerec/pseuds/Gerec)




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